Equilibrium
by FatedFeathers
Summary: When you've lived through and beyond your worst nightmare, can you really tell if it's truly over? Or has it even begun? Post-Eclipse, alternate Breaking Dawn future. Mature audiences only. Tuck your toes in and wrap yourselves up in a blanket.


_**Disclaimer****: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**_

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><p><strong>o~* Equilibrium<strong> ***~o**

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><p><em>I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.  Edgar Allen Poe_

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><p><strong>o~*iii*~o<strong>

Most days—if my days could be called days: morning, routine and nightfall all rolling into one everlasting, passing moment of something—I just pushed through, because death was not an option for me. I chose not to remember. Not because I _really_ didn't—I burned to forget on the days the pain threatened to turn me inside out—but I controlled it now. I squashed it with poison and chased it with a lift and a semblance of life.

It wasn't the best, but it was my choice, the only way I kept from looking inside or behind, the only management of the disease that perforated my heart, mind and body. I was marked by a time that at best was a sane man's insanity, at worst an insane man's truth.

None of the two applied to me though, as I'd been neither man nor sane. I don't think sanity was something I could speak of with conviction and fully know its meaning. Not today—probably not ever.

Even less could I, with absolute certainty, say that my suspension in whatever time I was stuck in was solid and durable—how could I? I constantly felt fractured.

Recollection flashed in my periphery, and instinctively I knew—when it tried to break through the barriers, even before it could pierce the surface—that it hadn't been enough. I had to have _more, _and I was at my drawers, digging beneath my clothes for salvation . . .

Sitting back down on my recliner—staring at the dust hovering in the waning daylight, filtering through the cracks in the blinds covering my windows—I balanced the glass on the edge of the armrest. The golden liquid slithered back down the slope of the rim, from where my lips had been only moments before, pooling at the bottom.

Empty, _almost_ empty; I wished I could be, too. But I wasn't. I never would be.

The oppressive fog twisted and curled around me as beads of sweat broke out all over my body. My stomach roiled, trying to reject the corruption, bleeding vengeance through the slits when I refused to give in. It came at me with claws, burning, suffocating and obliterating me-

"_Fuck_," I groaned and pushed the heels of my palms into my sockets, as if the pressure and the shimmer would block it. "C'mon c'mon c'mon—come_ on_..."

_Screaming and crying. A hysterical, chanting sound. Words strung together in desperation: "Don't take him, don't kill him, don't take him away—you don't have to do this!"_

_A pained voice on the edge of reason: "It's killing you—we have to—I'm so sorry, love, I'm so so sorry."_

"_No, please don't, please!" More sobbing—endless sobbing. Betrayal flashed raw on her face and in her eyes; tearing someone apart. Killing him. Destroying her._

Glass shattered. The shards rained down in a pitter-patter, scattering across the worn linoleum floor. My heart beat a frantic, erratic meter, pushing acid up my throat. I swallowed back, again and again, and then bent forward, elbows on my knees. Muscles twitched and contracted. It was winning, and I wasn't going to have that; it had _me_ though.

"_Don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't even look at me! You killed him! I hate you I hate you I **hate you**!"_

That voice always said the same thing, and it never got better, but I'd count my blessings it didn't get worse. In the end, no matter how bad it got, the dull ache that now spread through me only killed that little bit more, and for that I was grateful. Hopefully, one day, it would erase enough to make it stop entirely.

Until then . . .

A light tremor shuddered down my arms. "Aw, thank fuck." I sagged back as the familiar pinpricks and tingles burst into the crown of my head and spread through me, into my fingers and toes, wave upon delicious wave. I exhaled. My lungs inflated with life and I sat there, eyes closed, as the burning subsided, only to remain an echo of what it once had been.

Some time later, I had the keys to my flat and headed out the door.

**o~*iii*~o**

"Jay, yo, Jay, wait up man, wait up." I grabbed the railing and took a good look down the spiraling staircase, watching the little rat shouting after me. He leaped two steps at a time to catch up.

"Where's the fire?" I asked as he slowed down, climbing the rest of the way in my shadow.

"The boss told me to keep an eye on you." The kid fidgeted with the cuffs of his hoodie, constantly pulling them down over his hands, and I wondered what he was supposed to do to intercept the kind of trouble that gravitated my way.

"Gonna kill 'em with hysteria, Sean?" I shook my head. They'd more likely flog his ass for making them piss their pants from laughter.

"Yeah, but not before I pull out my Superman costume, hey-" He dropped his hand from my jacket instantly when I froze. "Sorry, Jay, I-I..." he stammered himself into silence, and I turned to give him a flat stare.

"Do you have tits somewhere under that ridiculous outfit of yours?"

He shook his head, eyes on his shoes—the parts that weren't covered by his homeboy jeans.

"Didn't think so." I continued up the stairs. "Remember that next time you wanna cop a feel, okay, kid?"

"Y-yes, Jay."

I glanced over my shoulder. "Get a fucking grip, you shouldn't even be here."

Sean scrambled after me, falling into my shadow again.

"Jeez," I exhaled, and then muttered, "I'm not a goddamn babysitter."

"I won't be a problem, I swear, I won't, just... you got—can I have some?"

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that." Whatever he thought I had, was mine—not that it was what he thought—it'd kill him—but I also had strict rules. I didn't deal, and I sure as hell didn't share. This was my own drama, and I ran it how I saw fit. "You wanna follow me, fine, but if you ask me again I'm taking you home to mommy. This ain't a joke, but it ain't a life either." Hypocrisy, loud and clear. I was such a fucking bullshitter, but I wasn't dragging anyone down with me. Especially not a kid. "Kids should be kids," I said, feeling a strange itch somewhere in my body, but I was too jacked up to tell where it came from.

Good. It's how it should be.

**o~*iii*~o**

My dreams were made of stone, of ice, of pitch black fire.

Though, thankfully, I was pretty much dream-free these days. I either went under the veil of sleep in a state of oblivion, or tumbled over the threshold of exhaustion after having fucked myself cold and empty.

Both worked; both purged my failures. It was a unified win-win situation.

I sat silently, and followed her movements as she perched her toes on the edge of my bed and slipped one stocking onto her foot, rolling it up across her ankle. Farther. She half turned, giving me the full view of the dark patch of hair between her legs.

"Looks like you didn't fuck me good enough, Jay," she crooned. There was no humor, just the professional approach. It was her job to give guys with a hard-on relief, and she excelled at that. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay, baby?"

"I'm sure," I replied with indifference and flung her lacy panties into her face. "Turn the other way or you'll be rolling those stockings up outside my door." As good as she was—she never complained, no matter how rough I was—she was as vulgar as they came. I was a hypocritical asshole. While it didn't faze me paying for a hooker, I sure as shit didn't want her acting like one.

A pucker of disappointment shaped her lips when she gazed at my crotch.

"Get out," I ordered, shoving her off the bed while grabbing her bag and taking her by the arm—not roughly, just firmly enough to get the point across.

"_Balangiu!_" she spat when I shoved a few bills into her bra. "_Muist!_"

"Whatever you say, sweetheart. Now leave." I pulled the door open and pushed her into the hallway.

She whirled, shaking her fist at me. "It means you are an asshole, you American cocksucker!"

I ignored her, tossing the bag at her feet and kicking her red stilettos over the threshold before slamming the door shut.

"Dense twit," I breathed and snatched the rubber off my dick while I stalked to the bathroom to wash her off my skin. Damn, they were feisty, these European women, but how hard was it to follow simple instructions?

The man staring back from the mirror while I shaved off the three-day stubble didn't look to have benefited from the past couple of hours the way I would've liked. Instead of tired he looked agitated, and then his smirk drooped, distracted by red and irritated welts on his chest – I looked down, feeling along the ridges of scars that would never heal, then back to my reflection.

"They're real," I told him, and lifted the razor to continue shaving. _"This_ is real."

_Vampires aren't. Neither are werewolves..._

_...or Jacob Black, for that matter._

**o~*iii*~o**

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><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_A little thing I wrote when creativity (and craziness?) was running amok. The initial plan was a WIP, but for now it's just a tiny o/s about the aftermath of one of those insane "what-ifs." _

_Lots of smooches and snorgles to **MeraNaamJoker** for proofing. Love ya, pretty lady._

_PS. Apologies if the foreign language is completely off the mark. I merely googled for nasty things to say. No offense was intended._


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